Thursday, April 29, 2010

He fell down slack-jawed, trembling madly at the sparkling waves as she appeared. Her footprints were breadcrumbs. Her eyes were careless and had the protracted luster of someone sucking on a lemon. They meet deep in a dance between the forest and moon.

Her name was Angel, he knew her as Svetlana. She was too young to be old. From childhood she wore the body of a woman whose skin never knew the desperate triumph of the sun. And she could perceive events in other worlds and in the deepest reaches of his inner mind.

She drowned him in her body as the fragrance of their slowly decaying bodies filled the forest like the boom of a gun.His mother’s words echoed loudly, in the violent reaches of the cellar he knew to be his mind: “We all go through life asleep until eventually we sleep forever, so wake up beautiful.” His childhood was killed in that instant as his clumsy fingers tore through her crimson-kissed locks like tiny pretentious soldiers.

Together they ruled the Kingdom of Dawn in an intense visitation of energy. They fashioned reality from Camus and defended Nietzsche from Jesus, until she became nothing more than a fleshy shadow and the moon became her face.

…The Rest of his life accrued in several short, sweet seconds as he awoke to his gaze in the reflection of his murky, mahogany colored cocktail in the goneness of the flickering bar light where the bartender beckons “Last Call.”

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

New York City, a veritable wasteland of promiscuity and pestilence made home to millions of hipsters and homosexuals alike. And sometimes in this magical city, it tends to dump more powder than the blockage from my ex-girlfriend’s deviated septum. In fact I’m held up pretty tight in my Brooklyn batcave and as anyone living in Williamsburg can surely tell you, there are two things one can do to pass the time in a blizzard: masturbate or blog. Seeing as the suicide girl’s server has crashed due to an overabundance of hipsters home from their jobs at the Fred Perry, I chose the latter.

From Brooklyn to the Bowery, it’s safe to say that aside from the girls living in the east village, not too many things in New York are cheap. I’ve only been resident of Gotham for going on a few short weeks now but I don’t want to give you the impression that I’ve wasted any time getting to know this fair city I now call home. So, in between my constant philandering, I’ve managed to compile a list cheap yet chic things to do while in the big apple and I’ve most affectionately titled it The Budget List.

Now this idea did not just bloom in my fantastical mind all its own. Neigh, I actually got the idea from a blog an old friend of mine does in called This Fish Bowl which gives you insight to some cool things to do in Los Angeles that won’t rape your wallet. You can get to it here Uncostly Yet Steezy Things To Do In L.A. I pretty much gave no thought to the idea of making this list seeing as it’s already been done until I thought, “ Wait a minute, L.A. sucks fucking dick, It’s full of hippies and hairstylists.” So for my people willing to brave the frigid northeast tundra to boast the most coveted title of “New Yorker,” I made this list for dear.

Drinks: It’s a fair assessment to say there’s a lot of truth behind the statement, “good drinks aren’t cheap and cheap drinks aren’t good.” If you don’t believe me walk into any hole in the wall on St. Marks and fork over a couple of bucks for 10 shots of Listerine. But for those of us who do not enjoy partying like a Navajo, unfortunately I have yet to find anyplace worth the time, so I have only a suggestion. Find yourself a club promoter. It’s very easy to do thanks to Facebook and leather jackets and best of all you get results. Yes, these soldiers of swank can get you past the most impenetrable of gatekeepers with a flick of their handsomely adorned wrist and once past the huddled masses, the vodka will fall from the heavens…for about 50 to 60 seconds. Don’t get me wrong, once you get your hands on a drink and you get past the sweaty, vinegary taste of the promoters balls, the Svedka actually tastes pretty good. Find one of these bad boys and suckle at the tit like a burgeoning calf covered in afterbirth.

Now some of you might say, “TP it’s just not that easy if you’re a guy.” Do not fret my frugal minded friends because I’ve covered all the bases. If you can’t get first name with a promoter do the next best thing, find a thirsty hipster girl. We all know the type dressed in so much lace she looks like a Victorian nightshade. Takes enough pictures at the club to fill a Chinese yearbook. Drinks ambient light like a Capri sun. We’ve all seen this before. Follow her tweets and her BBM will be your boulevard to the booze my friends.

Clothing:Although it may be cheap, discount designers are destroying fashion with unconventional matchups, mixing contemporary high-end fashion with low price spin-offs. Like Jimmy Choo for H&M or Jean-Paul Gaultier for Targét. So in attempt to keep my clothes prohibitively expensive, I resist the temptation to step foot in these places. You might be asking, "TP how do you manage to pull off geek chic intertwined with funky sensuousness and topped off with plenty of emotive braggadocio?" Good question, better adjectives. Good, cheap clothes are hard to come by here in New York and I won’t take the easy way out here and suggest you go into American Apparel and buy a $30 dress that can also be worn as a scrunchie. Though I can’t lie and say I’ve never bought from there. Yes, even Tyler Peters has on occasion been seen dropping a couple Hamiltons on a black double-breasted t-shirt cardigan (no homo.) What can I say, I like the girls there, I’m an ass man myself. I digress; shopping in the big city has become increasingly pricier with the reemergence of “now-necessities” like dr. martens. You live in Kings County, then figure on dropping a few on a pair of these. In fact I intend to buy a few. Hell, I’d personally fix that drafty window of Clarissa’s if she’d explain where she got those shoes of hers.

I’m off topic again. Once again I don’t have a solution, merely a clever suggestion. I call it “The Coat Check.” As most kids are too cheap to use the coat check, they usually place all their coats in a pile on a seat. Big mistake. Casually rifle through the pile when no one’s looking (this is generally between Mike Snow’s Animal or any Empire of the Sun song) being especially careful not to pick up a Mexican’s poncho some girl thought she’d look cute wearing or one of those retarded circle scarves big enough to be Lou Ferrigno’s hammock. Once you got the goods, you’re out like a male high school cheerleader. It’s a pyrrhic victory really, because most of the coats smell like cigarettes and random men’s cologne. It’s like they all belonged to Lindsay Lohan. You get caught, don’t blame it on me. I’m merely your gateway to all things demented and depraved. Follow my lead and you’ll end up with enough friends to fit in the back seat of a smart car.That’s it for this week’s issue of TP just ain’t to be flexed with. Tune in next week when I be going over cheap places for food and movies.

Oh and as to not disappoint my loyal fans waiting for some sort of unbridled dickheadedness, I leave you with something that really pisses me off: Girls who use the word pussy during sex. Stop it, it makes me think of Courtney Love.